Simply because I love long titles and cliche sick!fics, have a poor wittle Spock and his ever-loving Captain! Buon divertimento!


Flushed Green and Pink

Jim hadn't waited for permission to enter the room, not even bothering to make his presence known as the doors slid open. Walking in, hands full of a tray, balancing a bowl of soup and some strange lemon, "medically-correct" concoction that Bones had told him how to make, the captain kept himself silent on tiptoe, smiling at the bundle at the corner of the bed. It was a blankety cocoon that was facing the wall, and snoring thickly, like sick people did, the type of blockage that reminded Jim of thick syrup being caught by a strainer, and not being able to get through. He placed the tray on the bedside table, and folded his arms over his chest, mildly concerned.

"Spock," he muttered gently, a feeble attempt at waking the Vulcan up, eventually resting a hand on the bundle's shoulder. Mere contact was enough to rouse him.

Eyes glazed and confused as he searched the dark room, Spock turned over his shoulder to catch a momentary glance of who had woken him, only to allow his eyes to shudder closed with a soft noise, faintly resembling a sniffle, though it didn't quite make it. "Captain?"

It would've sounded content, had his vocal chords not stretched achingly at the end, posing both a question, and forcing a slight break at the same time. Resisting the urge to reach forward and gauge his temperature, smooth his hair back, plant loving kisses all over sticky skin, Jim leaned into the edge of the bed, right next to the Vulcan's feet, his knees curved up in a half-ball.

"Bones told me you caught a cold," he muttered with a look of sympathy that he was almost-glad Spock couldn't see. "He figured that you'd respond better to seeing me taking care of you, than him. So I brought gifts."

The only response he got was Spock dissolving into coughs, racking his body. With a wince, Jim manhandled his first officer into a sitting position (which earned open eyes again), until the attack was gone. Even then, the captain offered the glass of lemon-whatever, checking that he'd managed a swallow before locating the section of the arm that Doctor McCoy had ordered him to find. He pressed three hypos in at a time, doing his best to make it as painless as possible. The sickly Vulcan made no signs that he was in any particular form of pain, so Jim counted it as a mission accomplished. Cheeks splotched green, nose the same irritated shade, Spock gave a sniffle, taking the tissue that was offered to him to sneeze a few thousand times. Jim was sure that if he the (sort-of-hu)man's throat hadn't been aching so much, he would be receiving full lectures on how unsanitary and unsafe it was for him to be there. It was either the throat, or the plausible thought that Spock just didn't have it in him to start up a full-on rant. Either worked.

As the Vulcan trembled again, Jim caught the glass to make sure it didn't fall, his fingers slipping over Spock's icy ones- in that moment, Jim was pretty sure he was the one that looked sick, flushing a bright, vibrant red, dusting up from his neck. Not daring to mention it, he placed the glass to the side, clearing his throat from where he sat, folding his arms. He'd never really seen Spock in anything other than uniform, or something else that was at least as remotely professional, but he was wearing a black turtleneck, and he couldn't help the smile he directed at his toes, blush not fading.

It was broken by another rasping cough. "I had expected Doctor McCoy to keep my ailment to himself," voice nasally, he reached weakly for another tissue, muttering his gracefulness when Jim provided it. "I apologize that you felt the need to come care for me."

"Bones is horrible at keeping secrets, I don't mind," Jim breezed over it, shrugging as he tucked the blankets closer. "Think you're feeling up to soup?"

Spock was too occupied with utilizing the tissue correctly with the amount of mucus draining from his nose, mixing in with a few hacks every now and again to reply straightaway. The expression that contorted over his face with each one only made Jim's captain heart sink more. He spoke eventually: "Perhaps later." Which was instantly interpreted into "never". "The lemon was appreciated, however."

Nodding in understanding, Jim stood to drag the trashbin close. Spock looked about as close as he could get to thankful, lazily dropping the tissues, before accepting the box of paper that Jim had brought, usually sharp eyes drooping with drowsy illness. It was a soft, vulnerable side. Kirk still wasn't sure how he felt about responding to it. After a moment of watching Spock struggle not to sneeze again, his face conveying more emotion that he had in his life, the captain spoke again. "I can leave, if you want. I'll bring you more of that tea stuff in a few hours."

Spock pretended to think for a moment. His mind had already been made, however. "I am enjoying your company, Captain," he stumbled over the last word, stifled cough lingering in the ending syllables. "But I do wish to rest further. I do not feel as though your staying would be too much of a crime."

Jim took it as a "please stay", giving a scholarly nod, only to urge Spock back into lying position like an overbearing mother, tucking him in, and making sure he was comfortable, half meaning to scold him when he curled back over onto his side, only to gentle patting him on the shoulder. He even blocked the coughs while he best friend felt too tired to do so himself, throwing that tissue away as well. After pulling blankets over his shoulder, Jim saw it fit to trace fingers over the edges of his hot skin, smoothing the dark hair back, pressing a few intentional kisses to the forehead with the pads of his hands, only to settle back into the desk chair, calmly listening to the sickly snores that his miserable first officer gave off, after mere minutes of silence.

Poor baby.

A/N: Please read and review! Thank you so much for your time!